A strange weekend for John
by SnapeLikesMyPatronus
Summary: Suck at summaries, it gives it all away. Please enjoy. xD **Spoilers for 'The Reichenbach Fall'** Leave a review! Rated T for some language
1. Chapter 1

_No copyright infringement intended. (: Enjoy._

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><p>It was a rather cool night, so the fireplace was lit and the sound of the wood cracking was slightly peaceful. Nothing in 221B had changed. Well, no, that's a lie; a lot of things had changed. It was . . . more quiet, less – what's the word? . . . ah, yes – it was less home-like. John Watson sat in his chair next to the fireplace, staring into the small flickering flames. It had been four months since he'd watched his best friend – Sherlock Holmes – jump off of the rooftop of Bart's Hospital. His life had changed completely after Sherlock's death.<p>

The first two months were the worst. John would rarely leave 221B, but when he did leave he'd only go to the grave-yard and sit in front of that dead black marble headstone that had 'Sherlock Holmes' carved into it. Around the third month he would leave the flat and shop for groceries. This relieved Mrs. Hudson. She'd been worried that John would sit in the flat, all alone, not feeding himself for a long time. So for the first two months she'd been taking care of his rent and getting food to him. Around the end of the third month John started working at the hospital. He only worked there three days a week, though; it was still painful to look at the hospital. He gave Mrs. Hudson all of the money he had earned for the first two weeks of work, but she gave back half of it, saying "It's okay, just pay your normal rent. I'll take care of the other half."

Today, though, John seemed to have reverted back to the sad, hopeless man he became the day that Sherlock had jumped. It was nearly Summer, May – to be precise, and today was the exactly 4th month without his best friend. So as he was sat in his chair by the fireplace he thought of all his memories with Sherlock. He could see Sherlock laughing, Sherlock smiling, and Sherlock sitting silently in his chair, fingers pressed together at his chin, which indicated that he was in deep thought and didn't want to be disturbed. John could feel his eyes welling up with tears, but when he heard the door open he cleared his throat, blinked a few times, then turned to see Mrs. Hudson bringing in a tray with the tea kettle on it.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at John, then sighed slightly. "Good evening, John," she said slowly. She expected him not to answer, but he did.

"Evening," John muttered, turning back around in his chair. Mrs. Hudson put the kettle on, boiled the water, and made some tea. She poured some into a mug for John and sat it on the end table next to his chair.

"Thank you," John said quietly, but didn't touch the mug.

Mrs. Hudson stood there for a moment, then said "Do you want me to stay?"

John turned to face her again, then tried to put on a smile. "Actually, I think I'd like to be alone tonight."

"I understand," Mrs. Hudson said, touching his shoulder in sympathy, then walking from the room.

John looked back at the fireplace, which now had glowing coals instead of flickering flames. The room was growing quite dark, so he got up from his chair and turned on the lamp. With the light from the lamp lighting up the room, John could see all of the dust on certain things. His things were dusted, thanks to Mrs. Hudson, but John insisted that anything of Sherlock's mustn't be touched. The violin was propped upwards against Sherlock's chair, exactly where he'd left it, just gathering dust each day. He stared at the violin, remembering the music Sherlock would play on it.

John could see the street lamps turning on outside on Baker Street, lighting the sidewalks. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, looking down at the sidewalk. Something caught his eye at the corner, but he blinked and it was gone. He spotted a young couple across the street at the door of another flat. They had smiles on their faces as they walked inside and shut the door. John wished he could be smiling like that, but nothing made him happy now.

Just as he was about to walk away from the window John saw a black car pull up in front of 221B. No one got out, but John knew exactly who would send a car out at night to park in front of his flat. He grabbed his jacket and went downstairs. The cool night air brushed across his face, making him shiver slightly. He pulled on his jacket, opened the car door, and got into the back seat.

Everything was silent as the car moved along the road. John sat silently, not even trying to look out the windows at where he was going. The back windows of the car were tinted so that nothing inside could be seen from the outside, and vice versa. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes had passed and the car stopped. John's door was opened for him and he stepped out. The driver of the car got back in and drove off until John couldn't see the car anymore. He looked around at his surroundings and saw a small building with one room lit.

John knocked on the door of the building and it was opened. A young woman, one he'd never seen before, stood at the door. She looked at him, then asked "Dr. John Watson?" John nodded in response. The girl opened the door the rest of the way and let him in. John walked in and turned to the woman. "Just tell me where to go," he said slowly.

"Turn left down the hall, two doors to your right," the woman said, nodding towards the nearest hall.

John nodded to her then followed the directions she had given him. He opened the door to the room. It was dimly lit by a light on the wall and the smell of alcohol was in the air. There was a chair turned away from him in the center of the room. A small end-table sat next to it, holding a glass of what John assumed was scotch. A hand reached from the chair and grabbed the drink.

"I thought you wouldn't leave your flat," the man in the chair said. "Seeing as it's been four months today since –" he didn't finish, but instead motioned his hand to the seat across from him. "Have a seat, John."

John walked across the room and sat in the chair opposite the man. They stared at each other for a moment, then John said "What do you want, Mycroft?"

Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother, was a very powerful man. John really didn't know what to think of him. Mycroft looked upset, but was able to say what he wanted. "I've seen you up and about lately," he said slowly, sipping from his glass. "Are you doing okay? I trust Mrs. Hudson has been looking after you."

"Mycroft," John was getting impatient. "Just get to the point."

Mycroft inhaled deeply, then nodded. "Right," he said. "I've brought you here to ask for your help."

"What for?" John asked. "And why me?"

"Just listen," Mycroft said impatiently. "You don't _need_ to help. I've got men who can do this, but I'd like it if you could do it instead."

"All right," John muttered. "What do you need?"

Mycroft sat his glass down and put his hands together. "I need you to go to Inspector Greg Lestrade and report three murders. No one knows about them yet, and you need to be the first to tell Lestrade about them."

"Whoa, hang on," John said, putting his hand up. "This isn't going to get me in trouble or thrown in jail, is it?"

"No," Mycroft answered. "Tell him exactly this: you've seen three men murdered and the murderer got away."

"Ah, I know what's going on here," John muttered. "You, or your people saw three murders, but lost the killer. Mycroft, how can _you_ lose someone? You can basically find anyone, no matter where they are."

"Not this time," Mycroft actually sounded helpless, which was quite a rare thing.

John thought for a moment, then looked at a clock on the wall. It was nearly one in the morning. "Right," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I'll do it, but after I've gotten some sleep. I'll call Lestrade first thing in the morning."

Mycroft nodded and stood, as did John. "Thank you," Mycroft said, holding his hand out to John.

"Yeah," John frowned slightly. "Not going to shake your hand."

Mycroft just nodded again, then the woman from earlier opened the door.

"There's a car waiting for you, Dr. Watson," she said. John nodded to her, then walked out of the room.

The car ride back to Baker Street seemed short. He climbed out of the car and onto the sidewalk, then watched the car drive off like before. John walked into 221B and up the stairs to his flat. He walked in, threw his jacket onto his chair and flopped down on the couch. For the first time that day the sadness about Sherlock changed to worry about a crazy murderer that even Mycroft couldn't track down. Tomorrow was going to be a strange day.


	2. Chapter 2

_No copyright infringment intended. Enjoy (:_

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><p>The morning sunlight shone through the window onto John's sleeping figure. A frown slowly appeared on his face as he opened his eyes. The sun was very bright and it had awoken him. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eight-thirty, which meant he'd only gotten seven and a half hours of sleep.<p>

Yawning and standing up, John pulled his phone out of his pocket. The first thing he saw was the very last text that Sherlock had sent him before he died.  
>-<p>

Don't forget to buy the oldest  
>vodka they have. Need to preserve<br>some things that Mrs. Hudson's  
>been bugging me about.<p>

-SH

-  
>John immediately felt a twinge of pain in his gut, but instead of moping about and sitting in his chair for a week, he closed the text and stared at the dial-pad. He needed to call Lestrade and tell him about the murders, but he didn't really want to have to call him on the phone. He sighed and put his phone back in his pocket, then went into the bathroom. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He'd not shaved in a few days, which made him look slightly homeless. With another sigh, John decided he'd go out today instead of staying in the house, but first he needed to do some washing up. He didn't feel like going out looking like a hobo.<p>

He stood in the shower, letting the water fall on his face. After the heat left the water and it started turning cool, John got out, got dressed into some clean clothes, and shaved. He looked in the mirror again, this time at a more awake, clean version of himself. He didn't like the look of himself. He looked slightly happier, but inside he was still grieving. He walked away from the mirror and out of the bathroom. As he passed Sherlock's room a strange feeling filled the air. He turned around and pushed Sherlock's door open. John hadn't been in here in months, but something seemed different. Things looked like they were moved around. Before he could think any more about it his phone buzzed. A text flashed on the screen as he took it out of his pocket and looked at it.  
>-<p>

Can't waste anymore time, John.

-M.H.

John rolled his eyes, almost forgetting about what he had to do. He stepped out of Sherlock's room and shut the door. He went to the window and opened it. It was just as cool as last night, so he shut the window, grabbed his jacket, and went downstairs. Mrs. Hudson was just walking in the door when John reached the bottom step.

"Good morning, John," she said, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Morning," John nodded, trying to put on a convincing smile. He took a few steps passed her, but stopped and turned back around. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes?" she turned around, a small smile on her face.

"Did you, by any chance, go into Sherlock's room recently?" John asked. He knew this shouldn't be bothering him, but he had to ask.

"No, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, shrugging. "Haven't been in there since before–" she stopped. John knew what she was going to say. Neither of them had been in Sherlock's room since the day he died.

"It's okay," John nodded. "Never mind." he turned to go, but Mrs. Hudson stopped him and asked "Where are you off to, then?"

"Business," was all John said, then walked out of 221B. He got a cab and told the driver to take him to New Scotland Yard. The drive wasn't that long, and when John got out he paid the driver, then walked into the station.

A few people looked at John with sad eyes. Apparently everyone knew how bad he felt. _The staring doesn't help_, he thought. He walked to Lestrade's office and went in, closing the door behind him. Greg Lestrade was silent as John walked in and sat in a chair. They were both quiet for a long time. Lestrade broke the silence.

"Nice to see you out, John," he said quietly. "You holding up okay?"

"Coping," John muttered. He looked down, cleared his throat, then looked back at Lestrade. Mycroft's words ran through John's head, and he told Lestrade exactly what he was told to say. "Last night I saw three men murdered. I saw the murderer, but it was dark and he got away."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot upwards. "Who were the men?" he asked. "More importantly, why didn't you call me last night about it?"

Mycroft hadn't said anything else to John, so he had to make up the rest. "I was in shock," he muttered. "Forgot about calling anyone. I just went straight home. As for who the men were, I couldn't tell."

John's phone blinked and buzzed. He held his hand up to Lestrade. "One second," he said, getting up and walking out of Lestrade's office. He looked at his phone.  
>-<p>

Here are photos of the men that  
>were murdered. They were murdered<br>on Glentworth Street.  
>**3 Attachments**<p>

-M.H.

John opened the pictures and looked through them. Only one of the men looked familiar. He was bald and had many tattoos. It was the man that had moved in next door to him. The man that was with Mrs. Hudson in the hall the day Sherlock had died. The second man had long-ish hair, and the third had a short hair cut. John looked at the street name, and realized that It was very close to Baker Street. Before John went back into Lestrade's office, he texted Mycroft back with a few questions.  
>-<p>

How exactly were they murdered?  
>What did the murderer look like?<p>

-JW

John waited five minutes, then his phone buzzed again. Another text appeared.  
>-<p>

They seemed to be forced off of  
>some flat's roof. No one got a good<br>look at the murderer, but it was  
>definitely a very tall man.<p>

-M.H.

-  
>John walked into Lestrade's office. He didn't know what he was going to do to explain how he got the pictures. It would just have to come to him.<p>

"Sorry, had to take that call," John said, sitting down again.

"It's fine," Lestrade took a sip of what appeared to be coffee from a mug that was on his desk. "So, this murderer, did you see what he or she looked like at all? I know it was dark, but if you could give any description."

"Well it was definitely a tall man," John said. "And he was fast, too. Sorry, but that's the only description I have."

"Right," Lestrade said. "So you said you didn't know who the three men were. What did they look like?"

John pulled up the pictures on his phone. "These were the men," John said.

"Where did you get those pictures?" Lestrade asked, looking through the images. Now was the time that John had to think fast.

"I, um," John mumbled slightly. "I was online last night. Found their pictures. Now that I think about it, I'd seen the bald man before. He'd recently moved in next door to me. About four and a half months ago to be exact."

Lestrade nodded as he listened to John. He frowned, looking closer at one of the pictures. "Hang on," he said, raising his eyebrows again. "I just saw this man four months ago. He got a job here, but quit a day later."

"John frowned, too, then Lestrade flipped to the last picture. "This guy looks familiar," he muttered, then handed the phone back to John. "I'll have a look at some police records and see what I can find. In the mean time I'll get a team out searching for the murderer."

"I want to help," John said, standing up. "I've helped with things like this before."

"John," Lestrade stood up and scratched the back of his neck. "This isn't like before."

"Why not?" John asked, but he already knew the answer. When Lestrade didn't answer, John said "It's because Sherlock's gone, isn't it? I was just a tag-along."

"John–"

"No," John said, throwing his hands in the air. "Know what? I'll just go looking for the murderer myself."

"Don't be crazy, John," Lestrade walked around his desk and faced him. "I changed my mind. You can help us look for him."

John was frustrated. He didn't want to be treated like a fragile object. He took a shaky breath, calming himself down, and said "Good."

Lestrade got a team assembled and gave them the information. The best definition of the man was "tall and fast", which could be anyone in London, but it was a place to start. Lestrade also said that they should search at night for the murderer, which John thought was kind of crazy, but it's what they were doing either way. The first place to be searched was along Glentworth Street, where the three men were murdered.

When Lestrade was done he walked over to John. "You can go home if you want. I can give you a call when we're on our way to Glentworth Street. You can meet us there."

John nodded and left the station. It was nearly two in the afternoon now and it had warmed up quite a lot. He took his jacket off and laid it across his arm. He got a cab home, and on the way he thought about how they were even going to find the murderer. Sherlock was usually the one who figured it all out, and he was gone.

The cab stopped in front of 221B and John got out, paid the driver, and went inside. Just as he got to the top of the stairs he heard voices coming from his flat. He pressed his ear to the door and listened.

"He's not here," he heard Mrs. Hudson saying.

"I can wait," a man said.

There was a long silence, which John decided was too much. He walked into the room.

"Ah, there he is," the man talking had combed-back blond hair and a scar on his right hand, which was extended towards John. "I'm Michael Cooper," the man said, and John shook his hand, looking confused.

"I'm–" John started, but was cut off.

"I already know who you are, Dr. John Watson," Michael said, smiling wryly.

"Yes, well," John looked around at Mrs. Hudson. "You can go now, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson looked confused, but shrugged and walked from the room. John turned to the blond man and looked at him questioningly. Michael took a step towards John and watch Mrs. Hudson leave the room. As the door shut, Michael sighed and looked at John. "Mycroft sent me," he said quickly, looking around the room at different things, then back to John. "He sent me to tell you to stay out of the murder investigation from this point on."

"Couldn't he have just told me this himself?" John asked, moving passed Michael to his chair.

"He could have," Michael said, shrugging and turning to look at John. "But obviously he has his reasons for not doing it."

"Well you can tell Mycroft that I'm not staying out of it." John stated, sitting in his chair and grabbing a newspaper off of the floor. He regretted picking it up instantly. It was the newspaper about Sherlock's suicide.

"John," Michael said, still standing. "You don't know what you might be getting into."

"Leave," John threw the newspaper down on the floor and pointed towards the door. "Now, please."

Michael wanted to speak more, but decided against it. He stood there for a moment, looking at certain spots in the room, then nodded to John. "Right," he said, walking to the door. "Your choice." he then walked out and shut the door.

John sat in his chair, thinking. If Mycroft is trying to keep him out of the investigation, then he must know something he wants to keep a secret, and whatever that might be, he definitely didn't want John knowing. On the other hand, it was Mycroft, and he could just be messing with John.

John spent the next few hours thinking, trying to find something to eat, and sitting in his chair. He looked at the newspaper again, which had a picture of Sherlock on the front page, and sighed. "Your brother is annoying," John muttered, staring at the picture. He wished that he could hear Sherlock's voice say "Everyone knows he is." and then see him grin. John looked away from the picture, his eyesight becoming blurred with the tears that formed. He cleared his throat and sniffed slightly, drying his eyes on his sleeve when he heard his phone ring.

"Hello?" John answered the phone.

"We're nearly to Glentworth Street," Inspector Lestrade's voice said. "Be there in five minutes."

"All right, see you in a few," John then turned his phone off and put it in his pocket. He grabbed his jacket and put it on, then walked out and down the stairs. He stepped out of the building and closed the door. There were no cabs on Baker Street at this hour, so John decided to walk.

The sun had gone down completely and the streets were quiet. A little too quiet for John's liking. He immediately thought it was a bad idea to be walking outside at night with a murderer on the loose. He looked around as he turned the street corner. The street sign ahead read 'Glentworth'. John saw something out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and looked down an alley, but all he saw was a cat getting into some trash. A sigh of relief escaped John's lips as he saw Lestrade and his team turning the corner and stopping at Glentworth. John walked over to Lestrade, who was getting out of his car. Dr. Anderson and Sgt. Sally Donovan walked over, as well.

"We see the bodies just down the street a way," Donovan said, looking from John to Lestrade. "What I don't understand is how no one's even seen the bodies. They've been here for a day, doesn't anyone live on this street?"

"No," John said, remembering something that happened a few months before. "Many burglary attempts happened in all of these flats on this street two months ago. Everyone living here moved out and it's been eerie ever since. No one even walks down this street."

"That's insane," Anderson said with his annoying voice, his mouth slightly agape.

John looked over at Anderson, then to Lestrade. "Why is _he_ here?" Most honestly, John didn't like Anderson. Sherlock had told John many stories that involved Anderson, which mostly consisted of words like "Idiot," and "Points out the obvious."

"He's here because he's part of my team," Lestrade said, shrugging.

The four of them stood there for a moment, then John walked off to see the bodies. The three others followed him and Lestrade turned on his flashlight so they could see. John looked at the body of the bald man. There was no sign of gunshot wounds or bruises indicating any of them being strangled. John looked at Lestrade. "Mind if I call someone from Bart's Hospital to come down here?"

"Who?" Lestrade asked.

"Molly Hooper," John said. "She works in the morgue. She can figure out what exactly killed these men."

"We already know what killed them," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "That's the reason we're here. We need to look for the murderer."

John nodded. "Fine," he said, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing Molly's number. "I'm still going to have Molly come down here. You can go search for the murderer."

Lestrade shrugged and walked off, telling his team to search the four blocks nearest Glentworth for any signs of the murderer. John waited a few moments, then heard a ring. Molly immediately answered her phone with a tired "Hello?"

"Hi, Molly," John said, scratching the back of his neck. "It's John Watson."

"Oh!" Molly's voice suddenly went from tired to worried. "Hi, John. You all right?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Hey, do you think you could come down to Glentworth Street? I need to know how these men were murdered, and I know you're brilliant at figuring it out."

"There was a murder?" Molly sounded even more worried.

"Happened last night," John said. "I've got Inspector Lestrade and his team here, so if you could get here as soon as possible that would be great."

"Okay," Molly said. "I'll be there in a few minutes." She hung up the phone and John turned his off.

A few minutes passed and Molly pulled up in her car. Lestrade had put up blue police tape, blocking off both ends of the street. Molly got out of her car and walked over to John.

"Where are they?" she asked. John pointed to where Lestrade was standing, talking to Anderson. Molly walked under the blue tape, followed by John. "May I have a look at the bodies?" Molly asked Lestrade.

"Go ahead," Lestrade said.

Molly knelt down by the bodies. "I'll need some light."

John grabbed the flashlight that Lestrade had used earlier and turned it on, handing it to Anderson. "Be useful," John said, then smirked. Anderson rolled his eyes and held the flashlight so that Molly could inspect the bodies.

"Nothing indicates a struggle," Molly said, looking over the three men. "By the looks of it, they weren't murdered."

Lestrade and John looked surprised. "What do you mean 'not murdered'?" Lestrade sounded frustrated now.

"Well, they fell from the roof of this flat, yeah?" Molly said, staring at Lestrade. He nodded slowly. "The way they landed looks to me like they were running across the roof, maybe from someone, yes, but not someone that was going to kill them."

"So there's no murderer?" Lestrade asked. "But someone was definitely after these men?"

"No murderer," Molly said. "It was a triple suicide. Maybe they were running from someone who was trying to turn them into the police?"

"It's a possibility," John said, looking at Lestrade.

"Okay, I'll consider that," Lestrade said. "These three men were highly wanted by the police. I did some research and found that out earlier. We don't know who they worked for, but they surely knew how to keep it a secret."

"And when someone was after them, someone who knew exactly who they were and who they worked for, the only way to keep their information a secret was a triple suicide. They were cornered," John said. "But that wouldn't explain why the one after them would just run away."

"Maybe he didn't want to be caught up in a triple suicide that would be mistaken as a murder." Lestrade said. Everyone was quiet for a long time. Lestrade looked at his watch, then at John. "Well," Lestrade said, "I'll call the coroner to get the bodies. At least these men aren't going to be a threat anymore. We aren't going to worry about the man who was trying to get them to us, he's obviously long gone by now. I'll call off the search."

John knew that Lestrade wouldn't stop looking for the man with the information, but he couldn't be bothered with thinking about it. _How many people are going to jump off of a roof to their death this year?_ He wondered.

The coroner got there a while later and put the three men in black body bags, sticking them into the coroner van. They also went to attempt the cause of death and it was exactly as Molly had said. The coroner said that the bodies would be taken to the hospital morgue for further inspection on the cause of death. After the coroner left, John looked at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning now.

"I'd better be getting home," he said. "Thanks for coming, Molly. You're quite good at what you do." Molly blushed slightly and nodded, and John could tell that she wasn't complimented often. Lestrade walked over to John. "Hey, listen," he said. "I want you to keep an eye out for anything strange."

"Strange?" John asked.

"Like unfamiliar people hanging around near your flat," Lestrade said. "Anyone suspicious-looking. Call me if you see anything."

"All right," John said, then Lestrade nodded, got into his car, and drove off. Anderson and Donovan followed in the car behind him, then Molly was the last one to leave. John put his hands in his pockets and just as he started walking his phone buzzed. He stopped and looked at it. A text flashed on the screen.  
>-<p>

You never do as you're told,  
>do you?<p>

-M.H.

John groaned. He really didn't want to deal with Mycroft anymore. He sent a text back.  
>-<p>

You knew it was a suicide,  
>didn't you? You lied to me.<br>I'll bet you know who the  
>man chasing the guys was,<br>too.

-JW

-  
>Another minute later, once John had reached Baker Street, another text flashed on his phone.<br>-

I knew it was a suicide, yes,  
>but I don't know who the man<br>was. My men can't find him,  
>And Lestrade will surely be<br>wasting his time trying. If  
>I can't find him, I don't think<br>anyone can.

-M.H.

John didn't really believe Mycroft. Another text blinked on the screen.  
>-<p>

Whoever the man is, he knows  
>how to hide. And no one's that<br>smart. I'll find him eventually.

-M.H.

John was tired of Mycroft now. He send one last text to him.  
>-<p>

Goodnight, Mycroft.

-JW

John shoved his phone in his pocket and walked into 221B. He walked slowly up the stairs, too tired to even think about anything but sleep. He opened the door at the top of the stairs and walked into the room. He took his jacket off and tossed it onto the couch. The room was very dark, so John walked over and turned on the lamp. He looked at his reflection in the window. Something moved behind him, which made him spin around fast. There was nothing there. _Great_, John thought. _Now I'm seeing things._ He wasn't going to trust anything he saw when he was this tired. He shook his head and sat on the couch. He stayed awake for fifteen more minutes, then flopped over onto the cushions and slowly fell asleep, and the last thing he remembered was the lamp being turned off.


	3. Chapter 3

_No copyright infringment intended. Enjoy (:_

* * *

><p>John was quickly forced from his sleep by the sound of something falling in the kitchen. He sat up and blinked. There was a light on in the kitchen and John saw the shadow of someone walking around. He looked at his watch quickly and saw that it was only 4:30 AM. He stood up quietly and grabbed the nearest heavy thing, which was a large book, and slowly walked towards the kitchen, ready to attack. He hoped it wasn't Mrs. Hudson. He turned the corner and immediately dropped the book when he saw who was standing there staring at him.<p>

John immediately closed his eyes and put his hand on his face, turning around. "Nope, nope, nope," he muttered. "I'm dreaming. This isn't real. Wake up, John." but nothing happened. John turned around and opened his eyes. The light, blue-green eyes of his best friend stared at him. John still didn't know whether to believe what he was seeing. "I.." John didn't know what to do. "I–no! You're dead. I saw you. No, no, no." He turned around again, covering his face. He walked into the other room and sat on the couch, trying to convince himself that he was dreaming. He heard footsteps, then looked up, opening his eyes again. His best friend stood three feet away from him, still staring at him. John stood up and walked up to his friend. They stared at each other for the longest time, John trying to find something to convince him he wasn't dreaming.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he asked, stuttering slightly.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice was proof enough that he wasn't dreaming.

John said nothing else, but still stared at Sherlock. It felt like an hour, but really it was two minutes, when John finally decided to accept that his friend wasn't dead. The punch that he landed on Sherlock's face made his hand hurt. Sherlock groaned in pain and held his hand to his now bleeding nose. John kicked him hard in the shin, which made Sherlock cry out and hop on one foot. "You are such a dick!" John shouted, shoving Sherlock against the wall. "I spent _months_ believing you were gone forever, and you just _show up_?" he delivered another kick to Sherlock's shin. "You stupid fuck." John cursed, turning away from Sherlock and going to sit in his chair. He felt better now that some of his rage was out.

A few minutes later Sherlock limped over and sat down in his own chair, wiping his nose with a cloth. John glared at Sherlock, who looked slightly scared of his best friend. There was silence until Sherlock finally spoke. "I'm sorry, John."

"You're _sorry_?" John said exasperatedly, throwing his hand up in the air. "you made me believe that you were _dead_, and all you can say is that you're_ sorry_?"

"I know," Sherlock nodded, taking the bloody cloth away from his nose. "I don't know what else to tell you."

"You can start by telling me _why_ you faked your death!" John demanded. "I know you were just making all of the stuff up in your 'note' about you inventing Moriarty. I know you, Sherlock."

"It was to protect you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Moriarty had gunmen, three of them, set to kill the three of you if I didn't kill myself. Moriarty killed himself in front of my eyes, so the only way to stop the gunmen was for me to do what I did. I didn't want you guys to get hurt because of me, so I jumped."

"But you're alive," John said, trying to figure out how this was all possible. "I saw you dead."

"That wasn't me," Sherlock said it like it should be so simple.

"Explain it, then," John said, folding his arms. "All of it."

Sherlock took a breath and started talking very fast, as usual. "I had help from Molly. We spoke before it all happened. I told her I was going to die, so we planned it. Later I told Moriarty to meet me on the hospital roof, he told me about the gunmen, shot himself so that the only way to stop them was for me to die. Then you got there. I told you where to stand, remember?" he paused long enough for John to nod. "There was a small building obstructing your view of the street. I jumped and landed in the hospital's linen truck, which was quite a soft landing, then Molly brought a body from the morgue out onto the sidewalk dressed in my clothes–"

"Wait," John interrupted. "Whoever that was, it looked exactly like you. Explain that."

"Remember the girl? The little girl that screamed when she saw me? It was as though she'd met me before. It was Moriarty. He had a realistic latex mask of my face. I found it in our flat when I was looking for the hidden camera. I gave it to Molly to put on the body we used as myself. Anyway, when you came round the corner the body wasn't properly laid out, so the man on the bike stalled you. When you got to the body no one would let you near it. All of the people out there were in on the whole thing. If you would've looked close enough you would have seen that it wasn't me. So they took the body into the hospital."

John sat there, trying to process all of the information. "Wait," he said. "So if you're back now, won't the gunmen come after us?"

"Oh, they're taken care of," Sherlock said, smiling slightly. "They were the ones that were dead on Glentworth Street."

"Molly said they were running from someone," John said. "Was that you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I didn't know they were going to actually jump off of the roof. When they did, I knew I had to leave before someone saw me and thought I was a murderer."

"I think Mycroft or one of his men saw you," John said.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Sherlock nodded. "It's difficult hiding from my brother."

"Do you think he knows it was you?" John asked, crossing his arms again.

"I'm sure he's figured most of it out," Sherlock said. "And now he definitely knows it was me."

"How would he know right now?" John looked confused.

"He's got a camera there, there, and there," Sherlock said, pointing to different parts of the room they were in. "Ring, ring," he muttered. John's phone buzzed two seconds later and a text flashed on the screen.  
>-<p>

Tell my brother it's nice to  
>see him, too.<p>

-M.H.

John shook his head and laughed. Sherlock looked at the message, then said "Never playing hide-and-seek with you, Mycroft. You cheat."

"Question is," John said, "who set up the cameras?"

"Michael Cooper," was all Sherlock said. John realized right away that Michael had been acting strange. The way he was looking at parts of the room – parts that Sherlock had said the cameras were placed in. Sherlock got up and took down all the cameras, smashing them to bits, then sat back in his chair, smiling.

"Hmm," John sighed. "So I have a question."

"Ask away," Sherlock said.

"How many times have you come to the flat in the last month?"

"Four, maybe five times," Sherlock had to think for a moment. "Ah, yes, five times. Mostly when you were sleeping."

"Well you fail at hide-and-seek," John said. "I went in your room the other morning, things were moved, and I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson didn't touch anything in there."

"Whatever," Sherlock said, smiling. He stood up, his leg feeling slightly better. John stood up, too. They stared at each other for a minute.

"You deserved that punch, by the way," John said, smiling.

"I know I did," Sherlock admitted.

They stared at each other for another minute or so, then John sighed and hugged his best friend. "If you ever do that again, I will make sure to punch you harder next time," John mumbled. They both laughed and broke the hug.

"Right then," Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Might as well give a big surprise to all of my contacts." He typed out a text and pressed send. John's phone buzzed. On the screen read:  
>-<p>

Staying alive.

-SH  
>Recipients: All contacts.<p>

"What now, Sherlock?" John asked. "Do we just go back to how things were?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "And without the worry of Moriarty being after me the whole time."

"Good," John smiled. "Well, I'm tired as hell. Goodnight, Sherlock." John walked off to his room.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said, turning the lights off and walking into his own room.

-

A few miles away a light could be seen through the drapes of a window. The outline of a man pacing walked passed the drapes and stopped in his footsteps. Inside the room was dimly lit. The man that had been pacing was now staring at his phone. A text had been pulled up on the screen. It said:  
>-<p>

Staying alive.

-SH

"I just can't kill you, can I?" the man mumbled, turning his phone off. The man's dark brown eyes glistened with insanity. "Sherlock," he muttered to himself. "You faked you're own death as well, I see." A laugh escaped the man's lips, a laugh that could send chills down your spine. The laugh of Jim Moriarty.


End file.
